Feathers and Flowers
by Courtney JoAnne
Summary: Small town college boy Mathew wanders into the woods behind his home. Looking for refuge from his oppressive home, he doesn't expect to find a garden within the secluded forest, nor a winged man inside of it. Au Fallen Angel! France x Human Canada
1. A Place of Comfort

**A/N: This is a collab between my friend and I. I don't know if she has an ffnet account, but her tumblr username is theproblemwithindecision. I do have her expressed permission to post up this collaborated fanfiction, as long as credit is given where credit is due.**

**On that note, this chapter is written by her. With the exception of bonus chapters, we take turns writing chapters. **

**Please enjoy, and review. :)**

**Words: 504**

It had taken months upon months after the discovery of the ring to build the place of comfort.

His initial thoughts were that being lost was horrible. When he found the flowers, though, he thought the garden was beautiful enough for it to even out in the end.

It was the kind of place Matthew's brother had once told him God had made especially for people like him, people like Mrs. Grimes, people who got lost in the woods. People who wanted to be lost.

The weightlessness of the metal in his hand and the way it reflected light, the way it absolutely glowed under the minimal light of the early spring fog… The flowers, the quiet, the way the thunder rolled and rumbled in a way that always sounded far away. There was something about the garden in which he had found the ring.

There was something peaceful and beautiful about the field of flowers that had the kind of diversity that called for the term garden. There was something natural about digging up that ring when he saw that mound of freshly upturned soil. And when he felt the whip of wind that was kicked up by the big, beautiful, grey wings of something off in the distance, Matthew held onto that ring like it was his. He fell back and stared, watched as shadowy figure retreated and then returned. He watched quietly as something crept up and poked its head out from behind a tree.

He was certain —he was sure that he had died.

When he had read Death in the Woods for school, he had imagined it just the way it had unfolded before him. He had imagined the shape of the clearing, the density of the forest surrounding him. He had thought of what that place Mrs. Grimes had been turned into a thing of beauty in, and of what it might look like in later years, in days when the dogs grew hungry and went to mourn, in days that the sun blazed and beat upon the ground, in days when thunder storms were just far enough to give that garden a feeling of calm, even when the panic of impending death should taint the air with the smell of ozone and fear.

The first time he saw the angel, he was certain he had died.

His name was Francis. He spoke with an accent. His wings were grey, and large, and beautiful. He was quiet, and careful, and undoubtedly the sight of heaven itself.

It had taken months upon months after the discovery of the ring to build the place of comfort, and it had taken him days in a daze to come to terms with just how alive he was, but it had happened. And the first time Francis smiled at Matthew, after months of the two of them constructing their home of comfort and flowers, Matthew gave a breathless chuckle and nervously offered Francis the reminder of his status, nervously offered him a ring.


	2. Yellow Flowers

**A/N: Here is Chapter 2 of this fic. So far, only three chapters are written. I will probably but up the third chapter tomorrow morning or this weekend. I can't say there will be any set schedule for updating, but we try to write while we have inspiration.**

**This chapter is written by myself, Courtney JoAnne. My tumblr account that this fic tends to be posted on is grayfeathers-wilted rose. That also happens to be the roleplay account that inspired this story between she and I. **

**Anyway, Read and enjoy! **

**Words: 620**

Every morning, Mathew would find him in a field of small yellow flowers, and would smile so gently at him. He would look up at him from his bed grass, and think about how the cowslip (as that's what Mathew called it,) framed the boy's face perfectly from where he lay. Every morning he would let Mathew find him there, and would keep his eyes closed as he felt the other study him. How his wings lay, how they were tinted grey… Francis knew he took it all in, just like he took him when he finally opened his eyes to see that framed face that studied him so.

The boy always treated him like a delicacy. They would walk through fields of daffodils and dandelions and Mathew would stop him, gently touch his arm if he even stumbled a bit. Francis would hold back a quiet laugh behind a straight face and tuck a daffodil behind the other's ear. Mathew would string together a daisy chain of dandelions before putting it over Francis's head. He would comment on the halo of flowers, and how it fit. Francis would turn to walk on like it was nothing.

It had taken months to build that place of comfort. Months of walks through yellow fields of yellow flowers, and smelling like dandelions and daffodils and cowslip. It had taken months of leading him into his garden from those yellow fields, months of quiet companionship as Francis took care of his garden and Mathew sat in the shade of the willow tree. It had taken months to build that place of comfort, the place of delicate touches and daisy chains, of yellow and grays, months before the one reward.

And Francis smiled.

Francis smiled and in that moment Mathew was caught and he could see it in the boy's young eyes. The soft chuckle, the soft face, it all lead to an out stretched shaking hand. And it was what was offered in that hand that broke the moment.

The smiled faded from the lips, and gray eyes clouded over with storms; Storms of thoughts and memories far from Mathew's comprehension, storms that shook the pale body of the winged man and tossed his mind in the tempest. The morning fog that had once looked so relaxed and friendly brought a new air, the shadows that were once warm with the fragrance of cowslip and daffodils were cold and distant. Francis tore himself from Mathew and rushed through the garden, his wings that once moved so naturally with his body now only serving to get in his way.

When Mathew found him again he was kneeling in the dirt, elegant hands plunging into the loam frantically. An animalistic fear seemed to be spread across his face as the daisy chain fell from his head like that ring had so long ago, except where the ring was simply buried and forgotten the flowers were torn up. Torn up in the frantic chase for the past.

It wasn't long before he found it, a small clothe bundle that Francis began to pull apart immediately. Layer upon layer fell away until he got to the core, ignoring the old stains of blood that were left from so long ago, ignoring the boy who stared on in a mix of fear and confusion. He stripped away the layers until it lay in his hand, a small silver cross.

Tears began to roll down the fallen angel's face.

It had taken months to build that place of comfort, months of yellow fields and yellow flowers and daffodils and dandelions. It had taken months.

It only took a reminder of who he really was to take it all away.


	3. Home

**A/N: From this chapter onward I'm not sure what the updating frequency will be. Like I stated before, we write as inspiration comes to us, and I have to admit we get sidetracked a lot from the main story by other little one shots and things. I also apologise a bit I suppose that the chapters are so short, we write in scenes and idk, this is just how it works out. XD**

**This chapter is written by my glorious partner, who's tumblr can be found in the first chapter. Enjoy it, because I have to admit I believe her writing the better of us. **

**Words: 729**

The trip home was a blur of mud, blank faces, and the city smog that was Matthew's reality. The flip-side of the fallen angel's reality. It was a dream there in the garden; a picturesque place of quiet and beauty where he was himself in all of his softness. At home, things were all glowing televisions and linoleum floors. Every image or mention of religion was associated with a quiet name, a face Matthew had seen and immediately associated with a higher power he had never seen in such a soft light. There was a difference. He was different. He could only handle so much.

Matthew sighed when he finally made his way inside of his house, ducking his head and moving to drop his dirty sweatshirt and kick off his dirty shoes before he made his way to his kitchen. The whole house smelled of cold spaghetti and stale garlic bread, and he really didn't want to think about anything because it all lead back to His name, or His face, or His garden, or anything else that would just bring him back to the beginning in a horrifically surreal way. Too good to be true. Every thought had a smoky trail that left back to the fire of the nightmare; a firestorm; the remnants of lightning striking that tree. That place where He slept, that place where Matthew had sat and made flowers made of daffodils and daisies, where things had been started and ended in a flash.

Matthew considered going back to find Him near his garden when Alfred came slamming into the cardboard house, eagerly tearing through the house and toward his room, shaking the foundation with his strength.

That was Alfred, the stark reality and the brute strength, the flip side in which he would strive in the Real word, while Matthew could only possibly live happily in Francis' garden.

When the thought occurred to him without the name censured, his bones ached like being out in the cold and rain.

Rather than tossing the food he added on top of it, taking care to serve too much, because nothing was ever enough for Alfred. Except for when it was and he slammed doors.

The minute and thirty seconds had elapsed by the time Matthew had made his way into his room and down onto his bed, Alfred's door opening at the sound.

Matthew rolled over and he had a thought that was tangently related to Francis (and flowers and ringsand dirt) that was soft and made him want to whine. He hadn't been aware, hadn't known Francis well enough. He hadn't thought, and so he hadn't watched years unraveled to reveal a cross; watched hands claw at earth ruthlessly; watched an animalistic panic that (for the first time since he'd first laid eyes on those wings) made him fear for his own safety. But he hadn't thought, and it wasn't the look on Francis' face that had made him flee so much as the guilt he felt from knowing that he had caused the whole mess. He was the one who took the ring, who gave it as though it were his to give, who was a child, a child, a stupid child.

"Matt?" Alfred called into the room, door creaking open slowly.

There was a warm smell of melting butter that followed him into the room.

"Hey, c'mon." Alfred nudged with a free hand, standing over his brother awkwardly. "C'mon, Matt. Living room."

It was their ritual, their way of being close. A couple of blankets and pillows, some soda, some left overs… sometimes horror game or movies if Alfred was feeling masochistic or brave. A flash light and an empty living room because dad was working, and it wasn't like mom was coming back anyway.

"She's in a better place." Alfred would reason , lull himself into comfort.

Matthew thought she wasn't coming back because she couldn't raise from the dead, regardless of whether or not she was in a better place.

"You look like hell." Alfred stated, a prompt for conversation rather than an observation.

His food was cool again by the time they were settled in and ready for emotionally charged chatter between movies and games, but all Matthew could think about was how he was going to talk to an angel he couldn't even think about by name.


End file.
